High Hopes
by molotovmullet
Summary: He shakes his head at the image of her light ash blonde locks, soft and wispy. He doesn't have the right to think of how it frames her face, makes her eyes burn vivid pools of green, or how it turns gold in the sunlight. It's an image he isn't entitled to anymore. (SoMa) Or a story inspired by the music video for "High Hopes" by Kodaline.
1. Soft Light

(see end of chapter for notes.)

 **High Hopes**

She'd always wanted to get married on a day like this.

It's cloudy, but not gloomy. The sunlight is soft as it's filtered through the clouds, and everything is shadowed by a gentle shade of grey. He rubs his hands together against the cold as he retrieves his sock from the passenger seat. It's just the one sock. A lonely sock, he thinks. How sad. Meanwhile, the birds around him chirp, carefree and concerned neither about his life nor his sock. The grass is too green, he decides, too lush. Everything about this setting is perfect except for him and his crappy car.

He's parked on the grass, just down the hill from the church where the wedding is - originally _he'd_ wanted the wedding to be at the town centre, so that everyone could witness the grand affair, could see who she belonged to now, but it was just her luck that it had been booked for a different wedding on the same day at the same time; she'd always wanted to get married in the church on this hill. There are the trees she loves here - he can't remember their names, only what they look like - and the space is wide and open. He remembers; she used to say it gave her illusions of freedom. He didn't understand then, even if he'd had his suspicions, and now he never will. He grasps the hose in his hand - an old tube from the garage that he'd managed to find earlier. His resolve tightens almost painfully in his chest. He'd almost promised her that he'd make it happen, even though it wasn't his promise to make, when she said wanted to get married on this hill.

And now she will. Even though he never made her that promise.

They've been friends for years. The best of friends, partners in crime. Over those years he's come to learn that unconditional, unrequited love is beautiful and painful, rewarding and destructive to oneself. Maybe it's just him, or maybe it's because it's impossible not to fall in love with her. It's in every fibre of her being, of her _soul_ \- her courage, her kindness, her determination, and her free spirit.

He bets she looks beautiful in that dress. She'd always wanted chiffon and lace, she'd said, something simple and white. He wishes he could see it.

He shakes his head at the image of her light ash blonde locks, soft and wispy. He doesn't have the right to think of how it frames her face, makes her eyes burn vivid pools of green, or how it turns gold in the sunlight. It's an image he isn't entitled to anymore.

 _Beautiful and painful._

He closes the trunk, wraps the lonely sock around one end of the tube, and gently eases it into the exhaust pipe. His hands are shaking. Funny - he'd sold his bike to buy this crappy car at her request. (They'd Christened the car Crapperella together.) Ironic that he would be sitting in this very car as he dissolved with the last of his memories of her. He grits his teeth and gives it a tug to make sure it's secure before making his way around the car.

All these years wasted.

He secures the bare end of the tube between a window and the frame of the car door, so that the tube is directed inwards, and then pulls the driver side door open, getting in to turn on the engine. There is an alarming kind of calm in his movements, but everything inside him is _shaking_.

She'd looked right at him the moment _he'd_ asked her to marry him, and something unreadable had crossed her gaze. Something he couldn't for the life of him understand - even after years together. Years spent klearning each other inside out, years spent keeping each other alive. The years he spent making sure she was still breathing, and the years she spent making sure he didn't collapse.

Faintly he remembers the sensation of skin on skin - a rare occurrence, an exclusive one-time event. He shivers, phantom touches trailing goose bumps all the his skin of his neck and jaw.

He couldn't read the look in her eyes then, either.

The memory of her smile when she'd said yes in front of everyone they knew, the upturning of her mouth as she'd looked away from him and _he'd_ swept her up into his arms, jerks him roughly back to the present.

He'd held her in his arms once - he should never have let her go.

The smoke starts to stream in and he shuts the heater off. The pleasant hot air ceases, and his nose starts to get cold and uncomfortable. He slumps in his seat and runs a hand over his face. Everything reminds him of her - the seats of the car where she'd curled up before, the tilt of the charms she'd hung around the rear-view mirror. Even his scruff, rough and a little longer than he's ever let it get, reminds him of how she'd touch his face and laugh at the scratchy-ness of his five o'clock, or coo at the smoothness of his skin after a shave.

His eyes slide shut and he breathes in the smoke and everything else that is gloriously fatal in the exhaust, revering the reprieve it is. He tries to breathe slowly, tries to stop the shaking in his bones.

 _Rewarding and destructive._

It's quiet for a few beats, but before he can convince himself to slip into unconsciousness, he hears yelling. He's pretty sure that he's gone just about mad, because his brain knows only her name, her face, her _voice_ at this point - her voice, calling his name; he's probably imagining it because he wants to see her again so much.

But he has no claim over her. Never had, and never will.

He tries not to think. The clouds part a little, just enough to cast a delicate golden glow - the sunlight she likes so much - and he hates how perfectly he's chosen where and how to die.

And then there are more people yelling and they're calling her name.

His eyes flutter open - he's convinced he's dreaming - and he sees something white hurtling down the hill in the rear view mirror. His eyes narrow in confusion. It's not been that long; his brain can't be playing tricks like this on him already.

He twists in his seat to look out Crapperella's back window.

She's streaking down the hill towards him - a vision in white chiffon and lace, just like she'd said. She's barefoot, but she looks like a wild thing - like she belongs out in the open field, heels to the fresh earth, the grass brushing her ankles. Her hair lights up in the tender sunlight, and his breath catches. It's definitely fallen out of some kind of delicate updo, and he sees it whip around behind her haphazardly as she nears him. He cannot believe his eyes.

He gets out of the car as she stops in front of the passenger side door across from him.

That same unreadable look in her eyes takes his breath away. She's panting, she's a mess and she's _everything_.

They just gaze at each other. He doesn't know what to say. He can barely even believe that she's standing in front of him here. Her green eyes aren't burning and sparkling like they always do as she looks at him. He knows that look. It confirms his suspicions. Apprehension clouds her expression. She turns to look behind them, up the hill, where some of their friends have come to a stop alongside the groom, seeing her standing across from him.

Her delicate elfin features stiffen into a hard expression of determination. It's an expression she hasn't worn since her engagement. One of the things he's missed most about her is her unwavering determination.

He slides his gaze away from her beautiful face for a moment to look at the crowd approaching them from just over the crest of the hill.

 _His_ face is twisted in anger and frustration, and he's still yelling her name. Soul wants to punch him in the face, but his chest is still aching from the shock of her appearance, and the vividness of this dream. He doubts she'd like that anyway, kind as she is. She's a spitfire, but he knows she'd never let him hurt anyone she loves.

He has to remind himself that she loves _him_.

Doesn't she?

She looks back at him, and finally he notices the smudged mascara on her cheeks, smudges of black against the pallor of her skin. Usually she's an ugly crier - he knows, although she'll never be anything but beautiful to him - but today there is nothing that can detract from her appearance.

Their eyes meet, and he sees the world in the green of her irises.

Against his better judgement, he wants to convince her to go back, get married to the other guy - have a life with him, be happy, live the apple pie, white picket fence life. But the thought stabs him like a knife in his gut, the air leaving his lungs like it's been knocked out of him, and her stance is firm.

He sidesteps away from the car door in a daze, his gaze weary and unfocused as he moves to remove the tube and the lonely sock from the exhaust pipe. His hands are shaking again. The pain in his chest is stinging and it only intensifies.

Hope, terrible _hope_ , is blooming uncertainly in his heart.

Maka's brow furrows with concern as she spots the old hose tube feeding smoke into the car. She pulls the tube out of the window, throws it to the ground and gets in. He tries to feel ashamed that he just tried to kill himself on her wedding day and leave himself to be found here, at the bottom of their hill, but he can't. He focuses on her as she pulls the passenger side door closed, tries to figure out what she's thinking.

But she's wearing that unreadable expression again, and worry stirs in his gut.

He gets into the car, trying to decide if she's angry at him or not. She watches as he places the lonely sock gingerly in the back seat. Even if he'd just tried to kill himself with the sock, he still feels kind of sad for it - it's as alone as he was.

He tries not to look directly at the pain and disappointment on her face, like she can't believe it. She knows what he's tried to do. She brushes wispy hair away from her face, and he realises she's wearing small white flowers in her soft ash blonde locks.

He can't breathe; he'd never _dared_ to hope that they'd be sitting in Crapperella together ever again, but here they are.

Outside, Hiro stands just below the top of the hill, howling in frustration and stamping his knees. His face is scrunched up in pure rage.

Soul can't bring himself to care.

They drive away.

She tries to smooth out the mess of her usually straight hair, and he realises she's still wearing her engagement ring. She looks like she doesn't know if she's just made the biggest mistake of her life or not. She stares forward, out of the car as they streak past hedges and trees, the wheels quiet on the grass, the engine sputtering ever so often. Her green eyes are wet with emotion.

She looks like she's going to break.

The air is a little stale in the car, so he rolls down the back windows. He offers her his flask, half full of her favourite drink, one hand on the wheel, and she accepts it wordlessly, chugging it down. He watches her from the corner of his eye, eyeing the gentle curve of her throat as she throws her head back to drink every last drop. He thinks of the time she'd allowed him to love her openly as he pressed kisses to her shoulder and neck. It's a little awkward in the car, but it's not unpleasant. Familiarity keeps the stiffness of their movements away in spite of the situation. He's not sure if she's left Hiro at the altar for him, and she's not sure if he loves her, but like all things, they'll work it out.

She reaches around to put the flask in the back seat and picks up the lonely sock. It's got a bit of soot on it from the exhaust pipe, but it doesn't bother her. She puts it on her hand and turns it into a sock puppet. He glances at her.

He doesn't know how she's managed to make something so sad look just a little better, and his heart twangs wistfully. The lonely sock isn't lonely anymore.

She plays with it a little, and he feels the same childlike innocence of their earlier days that vanished with Hiro's arrival return. She smiles a little, and he can't help that one corner of his mouth curves upwards in response. She's always been contagious like this. He's missed the feeling of her beside him like this. She smiles a little more as she stretches her socked hand out to him and says hi to him in a puppet voice. The gentle curve of his lips stretches into a small grin.

She laughs a little and he chuckles.

\- _Broken bottles in the hotel lobby._

 _\- Seems to me like I'm just scared of never feeling it again. -_

 _\- I know it's crazy to believe in silly things. -_

 _\- But it's not that easy. -_

A/N: Hello reader! Thank you if you got this far into the chapter~ if you'd like to know where this is going, or want to listen to the song to get a feel of how it's going, please look for High Hopes by Kodaline on YouTube~ I'll update every day from today (: Please leave a review and let me know what you think~ it's been a long time since I was on ffn, and this is my first SoMa fic here (: See you next chapter~!


	2. Little Black Blob

She sleeps the rest of the drive to his house. He glances over at her every so often, and thinks about all the times they'd slept in the same bed, even if you couldn't really call it that because he never really _slept_ , and marvels at the chance he's gotten to do it again. She looks tired, but the stress of the day is slowly draining from her face.

When they reach, he contemplates carrying her into the house, unwilling to wake her, but he knows she wouldn't appreciate that. It makes her feel more vulnerable than she wants to be. He opens the passenger side door and lays a hand on her shoulder gently, and her eyes flutter open. She blinks sleepily at him and she smiles at him.

"Hey," he whispers, a smile creeping across his face.

She hums and straightens in her seat.

\- _I remember it now it takes me back to where it all first started. -_

She steps gingerly through the doorway, and wipes her feet on his little doormat. He feels a bit shy about letting her in. She hasn't been here since he moved out here - out of the way of her and everything that reminded him of her. He'd been running, but even here he couldn't escape the memory of her. The only comforting thing about this place had been that he hadn't seen her standing in his studio here, or sitting at the dining table next to him - he couldn't drive himself crazy wishing for her presence. His imagination couldn't become a hallucination, at the very least.

But now she's standing in his tiny living room and he can't shake the thought that she _belongs_ there. He's pulled a chair out for her, and she sits wordlessly, still looking like she's barely holding it together. She watches as he sits down across from her at his dark wooden dining table.

He thinks he shouldn't look at her, shouldn't let himself become accustomed to the idea of her living with him here in this small space, away from people - he doesn't deserve that, and she deserves better. He stares at the tabletop instead, but finds himself focusing on her slender fingers and the forearm she rests on the tabletop. The rest of the table is a little cluttered - a small vase with some wilting white flowers sits in the middle of the table, and a half-empty cup sits just off to the side of a folded newspaper and a bottle of beer. He hadn't really thought to clean up before offing himself. What would have been the point?

She asks for some clothes please - the dress is starting to get uncomfortable, and it's a little cold in his small house. Her bare feet on the floor are also getting a little chilly. He wants to kick himself for forgetting the cold of the house, but he really hadn't felt the cold; he'd been too absorbed in the warmth she brought that had been thawing out his heart.

He fetches her a bag of his old clothing and offers it to her. She sifts through it and he stays standing across from her, unable to sit idly in front of her. He grips the frame of the chair he'd been sitting in, trying to ground himself in this strange new reality.

She's not smiling now, though, and he can't figure out what she's thinking. It worries him that he can't read her now like he'd once been able to - long before Hiro, long before he'd moved away and out of her reach.

He drops his gaze to the floor.

\- _But I've only got myself to blame for it and I accept it now. -_

She's changed and she wants to see his studio here. She says this new home of his it's nothing like his old house - he's become messy, she teases. He offers her a crooked smile in return and points her in the direction of the small door in the corner of the room.

She enters, her hand on the wall of the short narrow corridor behind the door that opens up into the studio. She looks up in wonder and he ducks inside behind her. She likes his skylight. It's bright in the room, and the light illuminates her face as she looks around. He's embarrassed about the state of his room - it's just his old piano and shelves of books and his easel and paints and music sheets strewn across every surface.

The room is pretty big, actually - how he could create a mess like this in such a large space is lost on her - but he's been out of control since he left. He watches as she looks around at his paintings, looks at the elements of his soul laid bare in one room. The shelves and available surfaces are a mess of disorganised CDs, bottles of paint, tubes of paint, brushes, books, his paintings, and an assortment of other things that have nowhere else to go because he doesn't have the storage space for it.

He's almost forgotten the centrepieces of this room, his emotions left exposed out in the open. They hang innocently on his bookshelf, secured precariously on the edges of each shelf with some haphazard arrangement. He's been painting the canvasses the same thing for weeks - weeks when he'd lost himself to his self-destructive thoughts in dwelling on her upcoming wedding. She's drawn to the paintings like moth to a flame.

He watches her as she steps closer to them and holds his breath.

She reaches out a hand to the largest painting - a large streak of red and black and something that resembles a night sky. Her hand is small and petite, like the rest of her, especially as it emerges from one of his old sweaters, which are baggy on her at best. She touches the thick blob of black paint in the middle of the colours that bleed and he hopes she can't figure out what they all mean.

But they've known each other for years; he never stood a chance.

There's a small car that looks suspiciously like Crapperella painted in the corner of the painting either way. She's too smart to miss it.

She turns to look at him, brows just slightly furrowed in concern, and her green eyes are sparkling with tears again. He hates that he's done that to her, and he lowers his head, but forces himself to look up at her through his eyelashes, his mouth set in a straight line.

\- _It's time to let it go, go out and start again. -_

They've opened a bottle of whiskey. He'd almost forgotten that he had it; he hadn't had much time to think after he arrived here. If he'd started drinking after that first time, he probably wouldn't have stopped, and he wasn't going to let himself go down like that.

He doesn't have any fancy glasses, just one that looks a bit like a chalice. He lets her use it because he knows she prizes that type of thing - being fancy - sometimes. They talk a little and clink glasses in a silent toast. She looks perfect in his house, sitting at his table. She's all soft pinked skin and gentle eyes, and her ash-blonde hair complements everything about the house.

She explains that she'd heard about a car that looked Crapperella (she giggles at the name) being parked at the bottom of the hill. She'd been worried about him for weeks, she says, since he disappeared from his house and had remained unreachable. There's a sad lilt in her voice as she tucks her hair behind her ear. The baggy sleeve of his old sweater drops and exposes the skin of her wrist with the motion, and he wants to kiss it.

He's been okay, he says quietly, even though he knows she won't believe him - not after seeing his studio. She looks at him with that knowing expression and he can't meet her eyes.

She continues that she'd been worried about him - some of their friends had told her what was happening; that he'd moved away, that he probably wouldn't be coming for the wedding, but he was probably alive and fine and she should just worry about her wedding arrangements. Hiro had been so adamant about having the _perfect_ wedding after all, she says quietly, and everyone knew it.

He can't help but chuckle, even when it's so inappropriate and she looks up at him with confusion. He raises his glass to his lips sheepishly.

"It's just stupid, to me," he says after a sip. "That asshole had _you_ \- the wedding would have been perfect if it had been in the _sewer_." He smiles bitterly. "He doesn't know what he had." He raises the rim of his glass to his lips and sips.

She smiles down at her glass and takes a sip, her gaze meeting his over the rim of the glass, and he looks back a little shyly, self-conscious after his admission.

"But _you_ do," she says. Her gaze bears into him, and his insides sputter to life like a spark gone raging fire. It's a heat he never expected to feel again. It's the burn of her gaze as she sees straight through him.

He taps his cigarette lightly, dropping ash into the little seashell plate his hand is poised over, so unused to her presence ( _here, in his house-_ he can't believe it). It just happened naturally from sheer force of habit - a habit he picked up when he decided to disappear. Light one and smoke it. Same as always.

He's about to raise his cigarette to his lips when his gaze flickers up from the water stain on the pine table top and catches the raised eyebrow she's angling at him. He relents to her scolding look and lowers his hand sheepishly. He meets her gaze through lowered lashes and snuffs out the stub in the little seashell plate.

Even now she's taking care of him. He shouldn't get used to it. This isn't permanent, his brain reminds him. _She'll leave._

The thoughts threaten to overtake him again, but Maka's voice draws him back into conversation and her smile is enough to elicit the smallest upwards quirk of his lips. He focuses on hiding his fidgeting hands under the table. Eventually the pleasant inflections of her voice, like a symphony in his ears, slow down the gears whirring madly in his mind and he stops fidgeting, stilling with a slight sleepiness from the long day.

It's been a long time since he felt this calm. The companionable atmosphere around them is comfortable and settles pleasantly over him like an old favourite record, but something whispers deviously from within his mind.

" _She'll leave."_

 _-_ _But it's not that easy. -_


	3. Too Perfect, Too Beautiful

It's bright.

It's been a while since he's been woken up by the sudden brightness in the room, having spent too many a night awake watching the sun come up and adapting to the brightening day slowly.

When he opens his eyes, he sees green, and recognises her face across from his. He can't believe his eyes. He must be dreaming. The light woke her first, and she's been studying the hollows in his cheek and the stubble on his chin. The light catches on the flecks of hazel in her green eyes, and he's amazed by how beautiful she looks in the morning. He'd forgotten, after so long. She looks older now, with laugh lines and worry lines that he wants to trace with his fingers, and her lips are chapped and light pink without the darker hues of lipstick.

He likes that they'd agreed to sleep in the same bed so easily - just like they had a long time ago.

She smiles at him, and he thinks he's starting to understand the look in her eyes that was once unknown to him.

\- _But I've got high hopes. -_

They dress facing away from each other, sitting on the mattress on the floor next to the window in his room upstairs. She throws a sock at his head as he's hurrying to pull his jeans on over his boxers and laughs as he looks at her incredulously, pink colouring his cheeks.

\- _It takes me back to when we started. -_

He drives them through the small town south of his house. He wants to show her the beach he goes to when he can't feel her in his head anymore and it drives him crazy. He wants to show her where he's seen her in the times he's dared to dream of her in his life.

They talk in the car, about how they'll handle the fallout of the wedding (she'll apologise to everyone and expose Hiro's manipulation, amongst other things), and how they're safe because no one knows where he lives, and no one knows how to call him.

She smacks him lightly because he hadn't given his number even to her, and it kind of hurts her feelings.

He remembers her silhouette against the morning sunlight as they arrive at the beach. She's grown thinner than when he last saw her, and he thinks maybe he knows why. She smiles at him and they park the car. It's cold outside and she shivers, rubbing her upper arms to try and keep warm. He hands her his beanie and she accepts it gratefully.

It's cold here. Cold in the way that had numbed his mind and his body to the pain of imagining her smile when he'd allowed himself the luxury. The sky is purple-blue-grey, the sunset on the opposite side to the open sea, and they walk along the beach. She tells him the truth he's already known for a while; Hiro had been abusing her. He'd been controlling and manipulative. (She leaves out that he hit her.) That's why she left, she tells him. She couldn't do it anymore.

Besides, she jokes, how could she get married if her best friend wasn't there?

He knows what she's asking. She wants to know why he disappeared. She wants to know why he left her alone the moment she got engaged to Hiro.

He chuckles humourlessly and counters. "Why did you look at me when he asked you to marry you?"

"Don't change the subject, Soul," she chides. "Answer my question first. Maybe then I'll tell you."

He forces the words out past the lump in his throat. He tells her the truth - because he's never really been able to keep the truth from her. It's part of the reason why he left. He couldn't stand to see her with Hiro. He hated himself for never telling her, but he was so afraid to lose her that he just couldn't bring himself to do it. And then it was too late.

He was selfish. He couldn't stick around to watch her being happy with her perfect fiancé. Not when every time she smiled at Hiro, it tore the happiness from his eyes.

She laughs a little and Soul is confused. She's quite glad he left, actually. If he'd stayed and supported her like he usually did, she really might have gone ahead and been stupid enough to marry Hiro and she wouldn't have been able to escape him for the rest of her life.

She shivers and huddles up against his side. He doesn't enjoy the cold anymore because it reminds him of mindless nights at the beach in the dark and finding his way home half-frozen and only just barely having survived. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in close. Automatically, her arm winds its way around his waist, finding warmth in his back pocket, and they walk together, strides a little awkward, but manageable and comfortable as they share their body heat. She tucks her other hand into her jacket pocket.

They're quiet for a few beats. He soaks in the feeling of her beside him - cherishes it. It's something that's become foreign to him in the time they've been apart. Hiro had never liked having Soul around, let alone close to his girlfriend, and then later he almost never let them be in the same room after they'd been engaged.

She breaks the silence.

"I looked at you because I know."

Soul turns to her, anxiety crawling painfully up his throat. He can guess what she's thinking and he doesn't really like where this is going.

"You know?" His voice is rough. "What do you mean 'you know'?"

She breathes out slowly and her breath is a puff of steam in the cold air. The temperature is dropping as the sun sinks further out of sight.

"You love me."

He stiffens.

He stutters out a breath.

"And?" he counters. His voice trembles and he hates himself for it.

Maka is quiet.

"And... I'm sorry," she whispers.

The dull ache of anticipation in his gut coils into blinding pain. He can't breathe. He starts to pull his arm away. Every part of his body in contact with hers, even with layers of clothing between them, burns and he needs to pull away.

She feels him retreating, withdrawing into himself as his arm starts to slip from her shoulders. He slowly moves his body away and they come to a stop, but she pulls him back to her by his back pocket. He squirms a little, kind of uncomfortable.

The lights of the pier flicker on in the distance even though it's still a little bright. The moon has risen above their heads and gleams silver in the sky.

It's too perfect, too beautiful. Like her.

"Maka, let me go," he forces out around a grimace.

She shakes her head defiantly and burrows deeper into his side. His body is stiff against hers.

"I'm sorry I didn't see it earlier," she whispers. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier."

He can't stand being so close to her. He tries to wrench himself free of her grasp and manages to get a few steps away from her.

She's standing in front of him the way she has in his dreams, gently silhouetted by the final rays of sunlight for the day. Her wispy blonde hair dances a little in the soft breeze and she looks small, dwarfed by his clothes, baggy on her. She's staring at him with that unreadable look that Soul is convinced is pity. Her green eyes are dark in the dim light.

She steps closer to him, and he flinches, shutting his eyes.

"Maka," he breathes as she moves in too close for comfort. He leans away. "Don't do this to me. Don't use me like some kind of ... rebound." She steps closer as he steps back. She's close enough for him to wrap his arms around her, and it's only sheer force of will that's keeping him from running.

It's all he ever seems to do.

She shushes him gently and gingerly places a hand on his cheek. He jerks at the feeling of her skin on his. Her hand is small and cold.

She kisses him softly, tentatively, just a brush of lips. He's shaking, his eyes burning behind closed eyelids with the effort it takes him to keep from breaking down. He's dreamt about this too long to just accept it as reality.

He wants to taste her again. If just once more.

Quietly, he returns her careful affections, meeting her halfway as she moves to kiss him again. He remembers how it felt the first time they touched like this. Soul thinks maybe she can't really remember how they got to that point, but he does.

He cups her face and his other hand rests on the nape of her neck as he pulls her closer. She moves with him, her kisses wistful and longing, growing hungry. He loses himself to the taste of her lips and the heat of her breath on his skin, the tickle of her hair.

"Maka," he gasps, breaking away from her to breathe. She stares up into his eyes in the dim light. Her lips are swollen and pink from his ministrations. He loves how she looks like this. His world is reeling around him, and he places his forehead against hers. He takes a moment to ground himself in her presence, his eyes pressing shut as she cups his jaw lovingly.

"I wasn't drunk that night," she says softly.

He opens his eyes. Everything is surreal as he stares into the dark green of her eyes, shadowed by the growing darkness. They pull away from each other just enough to look at each other, but he's still holding her in his arms, their bodies still pressed together from the hip down.

"I wasn't drunk, Soul," she repeats. "I made that choice sober."

He's at a loss for words. The world is tilting on the wrong axis, and everything is spinning out of control. He can't keep up.

"What are you trying to say?"

Breathing has become a foreign concept over the past couple of hours.

"I'm saying I love you." She brushes a few stray strands of hair away from his face, and rests her hand on his chest, over his heart.

"And I always have," she murmurs. "I gave myself to you because I wanted you to love me."

"Then why did you agree to marry Hiro?"

"I thought you didn't love me," she replies simply. Sadly.

He pulls her in for a hug and holds her against him tightly.

He tells her he couldn't stop loving her if he tried. He chuckles, because he _has_ tried.

 _I love you_ , he whispers into her hair. Her arms tighten around him and she buries her face into his shoulder, cherishing his embrace.

\- _High hopes, when you let it go, go out and start again. -_


	4. Bruises

A/N: About this chapter... the reason why this fic is M-rated is because there's an alternative very smutty (and perhaps not well written because it's the first time I've written anything of that sort) chapter, which is why it seems like a double chapter. If you don't want to read the smutty version, please continue reading this chapter. If you want the steamy version, please check out the chapter posted after this one~ Thank you~!

\- _Let it go, go out and start again. -_

She kisses him a lot now - pecks on the cheek, or kisses pressed to his jaw. He is unused to being _able_ to kiss her, and jokingly asks how she can so easily kiss him like this, touch him the way she does. Sheepishly she admits that she's fantasised about this for too long a time to not seize the opportunity now that it's come.

He wonders how she's not afraid.

They take trips into town together. She draws stick figures in Craperrella's fogged up windows and it makes him smile. They have dinner and drinks, and she pulls him into a dance to a slow song they've never heard. He slowly starts to get used to the idea that Maka loves him as she looks him in the eye, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands on her waist.

Her gaze is all tender loving care and adoration.

She's so precious, and he ends up just swaying to the music as he hugs her tightly and savours the scent of her on the skin of her neck.

There is nothing more precious to him than everything she is.

\- _High hopes. -_

Her kisses also have the tendency to escalate into less innocent intimacy.

No matter how many times she kisses him, it still leaves him breathless. He wonders if he'll ever get used to being held the way she holds him, wonders if he'll ever stop the high that comes from being able to hold her close in his arms.

They stay up late into the night talking around mugs of hot chocolate or cups of wine, but usually the former, because he's afraid of the downward spiral he once fell into with the alcohol. They laugh and joke and have a good time in each other's company, and he remembers times _before_ when he had this luxury.

They cuddle in the dim light on the mattress next to the window in his room, and he presses a lazy kiss to her lips. She returns his affections with feather light brushes of her lips against his, and he can't resist her. He cups her face and scooches nearer to her on the pillow as they lie on their sides. Their lips meet again.

She's warm and real and solid in his arms ( _he can't believe it_ ), and he wonders how she's managed to so seamlessly go from a wistful dream in his head to crippling nightmare and back to a beautiful dream again. She tugs on his bottom lip with her teeth, trapping him in a hazy bubble of euphoria and he tries not to think too hard about how she's become such a good kisser.

 _She's always been a good kisser_ , he tells himself.

\- _High hopes. -_

"Maka," he mumbles sleepily. "You're amazing."

She hums happily, burying her face in his shoulder.

He kisses her forehead tenderly and hugs her tighter to him.

"I love you."

She whispers that she loves him too into the skin of his shoulder.

\- _When it all comes to an end. -_

He feels sick.

In the early hours after their lovemaking, he'd stirred from his sleep. They'd moved a bit in their sleep, and her back was to him, his arm draped around her waist. He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder, and froze when he finally set eyes on the skin of her back.

That was when he saw them.

The light in the room is dim. The sky outside is just starting to turn from night to dawn, and it's more twilight colours than the warm oranges and reds of sunrise. His fingers ghost over the bruises adorning her back, afraid to hurt her more, but he can't stop himself from touching her. He wants to soothe her pain and take it away. There's a particularly large red welt on her wingbone, and the track of purple-blue and maroon continues down her back, near to her spine.

He doesn't notice when Maka's breathing catches and she stiffens under his touch. He's too engrossed in trying to keep his emotions from bubbling to the surface.

Soul tries and fails to keep the pain from showing on his face. His mouth is set in a thin line, and his brow is furrowed sharply. His jaw is clenched so tightly he can feel his teeth grinding against each other. It feels like the muscle ticking in his jaw might snap. He can't understand why anyone would do this to anyone else - especially not to Maka. He wants to take the pain away, wants to take _her_ away, and shield her from the hurt. He can't fathom the anger threatening to boil over, a white hot pressure behind his eyes.

She turns over to lie on her back as his trembling fingers trail over the last of the bruises on her lower back, and folds her hands over her stomach. He can't look away from the enchanting green of her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. His eyes burn with the effort of keeping it _in_ , and the lump in his throat is painful. He cups her cheek with his left hand and strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. She just watches him, her gaze softening.

A tear escapes unbidden from his right eye.

\- _But the world keeps spinning around. -_

People are starting to talk.

It buzzes in his ears like an irritating fly - or maybe a mosquito is more adequate. The noise agitated him and he knows what it means - the stripping of his reputation and hers, and even though _she_ is no longer important in the grand scheme of things. The perfect fit she used to be in his life is no longer applicable - he needs to find a new function for this equation.

But the entire wedding has put an annoying buzzing in his ears. An annoying buzzing that has to _stop_. His grip on the rifle tightens painfully.

She is to blame for this. He knows. He wants to do more than hit her - he wants to beat her bloody, _break_ that pale porcelain skin of her back, make it give way to ugly welts that will never heal. Ugly scars on her _pretty_ skin.

It's still not enough to make her feel the shame and embarrassment he felt, left at the alter, bride running off and leaving in a car with some _loser_. She chose a _loser_ over _him_.

She's _crazy_. She deserves more than the beatings he's given her, more than the violent punishment he visualises in his dreams.

He closes his eyes and leans back, the rifle alive and pulsing in his hands. He pictures that loser's face, all stupid jaw lines and good looks Hiro himself has never had. His blood heats to beyond boiling point. He opens his eyes, but all he can see is blood. He needs _blood_.

With shaking hands he loads the bullets into his rifle. Two. He only needs _two_.


	5. Bruises (M-Rated ver)

**(Warning: Smutty smutty smutty. Also my first attempt at these things - please be kind in your criticisms. if you don't want to read the smut, please skip this chapter~!)**

She kisses him a lot now - pecks on the cheek, or kisses pressed to his jaw. He is unused to being _able_ to kiss her, and jokingly asks how she can so easily kiss him like this, touch him the way she does. Sheepishly she admits that she's fantasised about this for too long a time to not seize the opportunity now that it's come.

He wonders how she's not afraid.

They take trips into town together. She draws stick figures in Craperrella's fogged up windows and it makes him smile. They have dinner and drinks, and she pulls him into a dance to a slow song they've never heard. He slowly starts to get used to the idea that Maka loves him as she looks him in the eye, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands on her waist.

Her gaze is all tender loving care and adoration.

She's so precious, and he ends up just swaying to the music as he hugs her tightly and savours the scent of her on the skin of her neck.

There is nothing more precious to him than everything she is.

\- _Let it go, go out and start again. -_

Her kisses also have the tendency to escalate into less innocent intimacy.

No matter how many times she kisses him, it still leaves him breathless. He wonders if he'll ever get used to being held the way she holds him, wonders if he'll ever stop the high that comes from being able to hold her close in his arms.

They stay up late into the night talking around mugs of hot chocolate or cups of wine, but usually the former, because he's afraid of the downward spiral he once fell into with the alcohol. They laugh and joke and have a good time in each other's company, and he remembers times _before_ when he had this luxury.

They cuddle in the dim light on the mattress next to the window in his room, and he presses a lazy kiss to her lips. She returns his affections with feather light brushes of her lips against his, and he can't resist her. He cups her face and scooches nearer to her on the pillow as they lie on their sides. Their lips meet again.

She's warm and real and solid in his arms ( _he can't believe it_ ), and he wonders how she's managed to so seamlessly go from a wistful dream in his head to crippling nightmare and back to a beautiful dream again. She tugs on his bottom lip with her teeth, trapping him in a hazy bubble of euphoria and he tries not to think too hard about how she's become such a good kisser.

 _She's always been a good kisser_ , he tells himself.

He pauses to ask if she's okay, and she nods, smiles. _More than okay_ , she says, kissing him on the nose.

He pulls her in, growing bold, drunk on the heat of her skin. He flips them a little, and she's under him now, her hands in his hair, as he cups her jaw and sucks gently on her bottom lip. She's heating up in his arms, and he needs to feel all of her all over him, but he loves her too much to be rough with her.

He trails kisses down her neck and throat, and she arches into him, shivering at the pleasant sensation that ripples outward from where his lips meet her skin. _Is this okay?_ he asks quietly, kissing the sensitive spot behind her ear.

 _Yes_ , she gasps next to his ear. She pulls him closer by the neck and shoulders, and he complies. The fingers of one hand rub soft circles on her stomach, the other splayed across her ribs. She feels like a fragile bird in his arms, but he knows the strength hidden in the subtle contours of her body.

Her arms snake under his shirt to feel the hardness of his muscles and the warmth of his skin. Her hands scorch every part of his skin she touches, and it stokes the fire growing in his body.

He feels like he's finally thawing out from the cold, emotionless shell he'd forced himself into.

Breathlessly he asks if it's okay with her if he touches her, his hands poised near the hem of her shirt. She makes an impatient noise and tells him to get a move on.

He chuckles nervously, and his fingers deftly unbutton her shirt. She wiggles out of it and gestures for him to take off his t-shirt. When they've tossed their clothes aside, he straddles her and takes a moment to admire her, caressing her modest breasts in wonder. She watches his pulse jump at the base of his throat and lowers her gaze, neck flushed red at being bared before him like this. He lowers his face to her chest and lovingly kisses the side of one breast, his other hand cupping the other, squeezing gently.

 _So beautiful_ , he whispers against her skin. He's so _lucky_. His breath raises goose bumps on her skin. He looks like he's going to ask if she's okay again, lips poised just above her hardened nipples, and even though she loves how careful he's being with her, the heat building up at the apex of her thighs is growing uncomfortable.

 _Please, Soul,_ she begs.

He obliges.

The feeling of his tongue as it swirls around her tight nipple sends wave after wave of pleasure rippling out from her chest. She moans, gasps, as he sucks and nips at her, his other hand thumbing her other nipple, rubbing it in the way she likes. She can tell he remembers how she likes it. He kisses his way around to her other soft mound. She pants, unable to handle his licks and caresses, the softness of his lips.

She can feel his hardness against her thigh.

She takes his hand and guides it down to the waistband of her panties, just above broiling heat and wetness between her thighs. His hand is cool against her overheated skin. He gets the message easily enough and dips his hand into her underwear, gentle fingers against her skin as they feel her out.

When the pads of his fingers find her soaked heat, he chuckles, and the sound vibrates in his chest.

"Maka," he breathes. He sounds relieved and amused, like he can't believe it. "So _wet_ , Maka..." He traces a circle around her entrance, accidentally brushing her clit and she arches her back again, but infuriatingly, his fingers stay where they are.

"For _you_ , Soul," she gasps. He brushes his thumb over her clit and the white-hot pleasure flashes through her again. "For _you_ ," she pants.

He hums, and the vibration of his chest is pleasant. It reverberates through her body and she knows she needs him inside her soon.

He slips a finger easily into her and she draws a sharp breath as he strokes her from the inside. She stifles a moan and her hands look for something to ground her in the moment. She finds what she's looking for beyond the waistband of his boxers. Her hands rest on his hips in anticipation.

"You feel amazing, Maka." The dreamlike quality to his voice is back. "Can I -" He cuts himself short with a strangled gasp as she grips his hard length.

"If you ask me _again_ , I _will_ make you regret it," she threatens playfully, coy smile seductive. Her skin glows, and her green eyes are ablaze. She pumps him once and he can't breathe.

He pulls his finger out of her and she whines at the loss of him. When he slowly slides two fingers back into her, she sighs contentedly, and he feels her clench around his fingers.

She pumps him again, lazily, distracted, with her hand in his boxers as he continues to stroke her, trying to find her sweet spot. His thumb grazes over her clit, knowing that if he's too eager to stimulate it, she'll come undone too quickly, and he can't have that. He wants to draw this out, bring out every bit of pleasure in her body that he can.

She wiggles in his arms, and pumps him harder, growing impatient now, even as she melts in his arms. He's so hard it's becoming uncomfortable. He chances thrusting his fingers harder into her, and she gasps, squirming in pleasure.

 _Soul_ , she gasps.

He wants to taste her.

 _I love you_ , he whispers.

He traces a path down her body with kisses down her stomach and navel and lower, _lower._ He kisses the inside of her thigh lovingly. The scent of her arousal is intoxicating. She holds her breath as he carefully pulls her panties away, down her long legs, and tosses them to the other side of the room. She feels a little embarrassed as he takes a moment to admire her, humming appreciatively, before lifting her legs over his shoulders and positioning his face at her entrance. He takes a tentative lick and she jerks, her breath leaving her in an open-mouthed gasp.

She remembers this.

Soul's tongue is a magical thing, she thinks, trying hard not to buck or grind into his face. He pleasures her with the long, languid strokes she loves. She places her hand on his head, relishing the feel of his hair between her fingers. He uses one of his thumbs to brush her clit periodically and she's not sure if she can hold on for much longer.

He chuckles, and it vibrates pleasantly against her entrance.

He pulls away from her opening and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, sitting up and away from her on the mattress. He's grinning like a Cheshire cat as he licks his lips.

She can't help but laugh.

"C'mere, you," she giggles. It's been a while since she's seen him this happy - and not being shy about it. He laughs softly and crawls over her.

"Let's get rid of these," she says, tugging on his boxers. "As much as the colour suits you, it's not that fun if I have to reach under your boxers to touch you."

He kisses her shoulder and she pulls the boxers down and off him. He kicks his way free of the offending article of clothing and she takes the opportunity to throw him off balance and straddles him. She can't wait anymore. She _needs_ to feel him. His erect member sits just to the side of her entrance and he growls low in his throat. She smiles mischievously and rotates her hips, grinding on him. He groans, grabbing her hips to stop her.

"S-Stop that," he huffs huskily. "Gonna make me come."

She just giggles and kisses him.

"Isn't that the point?" she teases. She's in control now, and it makes her brave.

She reaches between them to position his head at her entrance, giving him a teasing pump. He growls his appreciation.

"Condom?" he pants.

She shakes her head. "Pill."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why are you on the pill when you were supposed to get married last week?"

She silences him with her lips and sits a little, pushing the head of him into her just a little. She squeezes him with her walls and he makes a strangled sound.

"Don't ruin the mood," she scolds. "I need you inside right now," she commands.

"With pleasure," he rumbles gruffly.

He slowly guides her all the way down and she revels in the feeling of him slowly entering her. She loves the look on his face, eyes glazed and half-lidded, ears pink. He pushes in all the way to the hilt, and she just wants to hug him as he smiles blearily at her.

"I want to see you come undone, Maka," he says, voice hoarse. He rotates her hips on him, swirling him inside her, and licks his lips.

 _Very sexy_.

She bites her lip, and starts to lift her hips slowly, and then push him back in when his head is almost at her entrance. He lets her take control, lets her ride him the way he knows she likes, and keeps up with thrusts upwards to meet her half way and slam into her favourite spot.

He reaches between them and she gasps as he pinches her clit lightly, his other hand still on her hip to steady her. She shudders in pleasure, but doesn't let go of the momentum.

"Soul-" she pants. " _Please_ -"

"Come for me, Maka," he breathes, rubbing her with his thumb. She mewls in his arms, riding him harder, movements frantic. The pressure building in her body feels like it's going to explode.

She comes with the sound of his name on her tongue, and her soft moans as she rides out the orgasm push him to the edge, but he holds on to watch her finish. She gazes at him with a pleasure warmed look, her skin flushed, and as he looks between them, where he's still thrusting into her, where she lowers her hips to meet him halfway. Hungrily, he grabs her hips and slams them together, groaning hoarsely, his voice guttural as she gasps at the feeling of him inside her. Her modest breasts bounce with the renewed vigour of their movements.

" _Soul,_ " she huffs, smiling slightly as she bounces. Her voice catches a little as she speaks. "Fill me up."

Gladly, he lets go with a groan, and the orgasm hits him in waves. Maka stills above him, her climax coming to an end, and he breathes out in relief as he unloads into her. She giggles at the warm feel of him releasing inside her.

She leans down to rest on his chest as he finishes. He wheezes happily as she puts her ear to where she thinks his heart is and listens as his heartbeat slows from its frantic pace.

He pulls her with him as he turns to rest on his side, cuddling her comfortably in his arms, even with the smell of sex and perspiration around them. They're spent, and content to just sleep, now.

"Maka," he mumbles sleepily. "You're amazing."

She hums happily, burying her face in his shoulder.

He kisses her forehead tenderly and hugs her tighter to him.

"I love you."

She whispers that she loves him too into the skin of his shoulder.

\- _When it all comes to an end. -_

He feels sick.

In the early hours after their lovemaking, he'd stirred from his sleep. They'd moved a bit in their sleep, and her back was to him, his arm draped around her waist. He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder, and froze when he finally set eyes on the skin of her back.

That was when he saw them.

The light in the room is dim. The sky outside is just starting to turn from night to dawn, and it's more twilight colours than the warm oranges and reds of sunrise. His fingers ghost over the bruises adorning her back, afraid to hurt her more, but he can't stop himself from touching her. He wants to soothe her pain and take it away. There's a particularly large red welt on her wingbone, and the track of purple-blue and maroon continues down her back, near to her spine.

He doesn't notice when Maka's breathing catches and she stiffens under his touch. He's too engrossed in trying to keep his emotions from bubbling to the surface.

Soul tries and fails to keep the pain from showing on his face. His mouth is set in a thin line, and his brow is furrowed sharply. His jaw is clenched so tightly he can feel his teeth grinding against each other. It feels like the muscle ticking in his jaw might snap. He can't understand why anyone would do this to anyone else - especially not to Maka. He wants to take the pain away, wants to take _her_ away, and shield her from the hurt. He can't fathom the anger threatening to boil over, a white hot pressure behind his eyes.

She turns over to lie on her back as his trembling fingers trail over the last of the bruises on her lower back, and folds her hands over her stomach. He can't look away from the enchanting green of her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. His eyes burn with the effort of keeping it _in_ , and the lump in his throat is painful. He cups her cheek with his left hand and strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. She just watches him, her gaze softening.

A tear escapes unbidden from his right eye.

\- _And the world keeps spinning around. -_

People are starting to talk.

It buzzes in his ears like an irritating fly - or maybe a mosquito is more adequate. The noise agitated him and he knows what it means - the stripping of his reputation and hers, and even though _she_ is no longer important in the grand scheme of things. The perfect fit she used to be in his life is no longer applicable - he needs to find a new function for this equation.

But the entire wedding has put an annoying buzzing in his ears. An annoying buzzing that has to _stop_. His grip on the rifle tightens painfully.

She is to blame for this. He knows. He wants to do more than hit her - he wants to beat her bloody, _break_ that pale porcelain skin of her back, make it give way to ugly welts that will never heal. Ugly scars on her _pretty_ skin.

It's still not enough to make her feel the shame and embarrassment he felt, left at the alter, bride running off and leaving in a car with some _loser_. She chose a _loser_ over _him_.

She's _crazy_. She deserves more than the beatings he's given her, more than the violent punishment he visualises in his dreams.

He closes his eyes and leans back, the rifle alive and pulsing in his hands. He pictures that loser's face, all stupid jaw lines and good looks Hiro himself has never had. His blood heats to beyond boiling point. He opens his eyes, but all he can see is blood. He needs _blood_.

With shaking hands he loads the bullets into his rifle. Two. He only needs _two_.


	6. Her Soul

Soul likes the way she looks in his clothes. One hand in his pockets, the fingers of his other hand intertwined with hers, he walks comfortably, her strides matching his lazy ones easily. It's windy here, and the breeze tosses strands of her hair around her face in that adorable way. He wants to reach out and brush them away from her face, tuck them behind her ear. They're near to the docks away from the beach - it's deeper waters here, and a little further from the main town. The soft bustle of activity from the neighbourhood nearby is comforting and homey. It's part of why he's always liked this place. Away from people, amongst people - it's a paradox he enjoys.

She laughs and punches his shoulder.

"Is that really how you should be treating the guy who drove you away from the worst decision you could have made in your life?" he snarks, shark-toothed grin on his face.

They come to a stop and she tries to stifle a grin, biting her lip. They're comfortable enough now - it's been a few weeks - to discuss her escape attempt, even with the lingering backlash of abandoning her wedding. He likes how she looks so much happier now, her cheeks coloured a pretty shade of pink. His clothes look so familiar on her - like a sight he's seen, but definitely hasn't before. Déjà vu, maybe. It makes her _his_ Maka, and he can't help but think that she looks beautiful in pretty much anything - even his sloppy, grey clothing. The grin softens into a smile.

She thinks back to when they'd first arrived at his apartment, having driven a long way from where the wedding was supposed to be held. When she'd lightly run her fingertips over the black blob in the middle of those red and black paintings, streaks and shadows of violence and pain. The little black blob that was supposed to be Soul. Her Soul.

She remembers how he looked then - the bags he carried under his eyes, hair in disarray, messy white stubble on his chin, a collage of loose, crumpled clothing. The dull of his eyes, apologetic, but _not_ at the same time. Sorry, because if it had been any later, she would have been too late, and she wouldn't have had anyone to save her from the biggest mistake of her life. But _not_ , because if she hadn't come, he wouldn't have been able to find reasons to stay.

He looks _alive_ now. He's not that black blob in a mess of shadows and blood and red and horror and despair. His eyes shine, vibrant red - like she's always loved them - and while the perennial eye bags persist, he doesn't look as tired, doesn't look as hallowed out. His head is held high, his jaw strong with his chin up. He's _her_ Soul.

He offers her that gentle crooked smile, and she thinks maybe some of what was on her mind had shown in her expression (which is something she'd absolutely _forbidden_ herself from doing since her parents got divorced) but it's okay if it makes him look like _that_.

Happy, at peace, content.

(It's Soul, anyway. _Her_ Soul.)

The same feeling she hadn't understood before agreeing to marry Hiro - the refreshing warmth and calm blooming in her chest - returns. It's something she can only feel being around Soul, a feeling that consumes her when he holds her so close and so tightly that all of the broken bits of her secretly fragile mind, fragile body, concealed and disjointed, fit back together to make her whole again.

She understands now. She knows what it is.

Lost in her thoughts, she jerks as a loud sound shatters her train of thought, and she watches Soul flinch and start to fall, something red spraying between them. Her brows furrow - this doesn't make sense to her peaceful feelings (what was that sound? She must have imagined it) and she feels her gut go cold with dread. Her brows furrow in confusion and another loud pop cracks through the air.

 _Blood. It's blood,_ she realises.

And that's when the pain comes.

\- _In my dreams I meet the ghosts of all the people who've come and gone. -_

Briefly he remembers her face, _beautiful_ and _everything,_ just looking at him as though the world _finally made sense_ , and then pain pain _pain_. A flash of red sparks in his memory, a loud burst of sound that doesn't have any right being in his safe place, in this place he's brought her. Loud, jarring, _destructive_.

It reminds him of the pain that gripped and strangled his heart when she'd said _yes_ to _that man._ It steals his breath, and he knows that whatever is ripping through his gut and spreading fire from the point of contact, there is nothing illusory about this.

He flinches, just catching the change in Maka's expression and crumples, hand instinctively reaching for the pain that flares out from his stomach, but losing consciousness before he can reach it.

\- _Memories - they seem to show up so quick, but leave you far too soon. -_

He's not sure if this is how he's supposed to feel.

It felt good when he shot the white-haired bastard. The crawling under his skin stopped, replaced by an immeasurable calm he hasn't felt since the wedding disaster.

But his resolve wavers as he aims at her, the same petite features pretty in pink and _joy_ that he'd never managed to elicit from her. The way she'd been before everything, the beautiful flower he'd wanted for himself - the same flower that had wilted when he'd plucked it out of the ground and deprived it of the soil it needed to grow and live.

His finger is on the trigger and pulling ever so slightly before he can stop himself, and the recoil jerks him back into reality. His expression crumbles into despair as she falls to the ground.

He runs.

 _What has he done?_

\- _Naïve, I was just staring at the barrel of a gun. -_

In that brief moment of darkness he remembers how he hugged Maka on the beach in the dark, dim light from the pier casting shallow shadows across their faces. Even in the low light her eyes had sparkled as she'd pulled him close and held him like he was the single most important thing in the world. He'd pulled her in, needing to hug _all_ of her, wishing that he could just hold her and keep her safe in his arms forever - away from the mess of her wedding and that manipulative abusive bastard.

He remembers how she'd smiled when he laughed - it was so rare that she told a good joke - and he'd been unable to control the curl of his lips. How long it had been since he'd laughed.

Another blast - a shot, he realises, a shot from a _rifle_ \- and he's torn out of the dark because _Maka Maka Maka_. He struggles with heavy eyelids and can't open them nearly wide enough - all he sees are mere slits of light - but he _hears_ her nearby, gasping, breaths shallow and slowing, and tries to crawl in that direction because _his feet are not working dammit_. He pulls himself forward by the arms, the burn stretching between his back and his stomach incapacitating, and he feels himself losing consciousness, dizzy to the loss of his lifeblood.

But all he can hear is Maka, and as her breathing slows to an almost silence, he panics. She can't die. Not now. Not after everything. It's selfish, but even if he goes _she can't die_. She deserves more than this.

The adrenaline boost propels him forward, the pain forgotten. He leaves a lake of blood in his wake. She's too far away. Even as they'd stood mere feet apart, it's an ocean between them and they're drowning.

He manages to pry his eyelids open just enough to see her lying still on the ground before they're blown wide open with shock. There's blood all over her stomach and blood streaming out of her mouth and blood on his hands and _blood_ everywhere. He doesn't see the lake of blood that trails behind him in some convoluted pattern, doesn't notice the shuddering gasps of his own breath. He only knows that he has to reach her.

Finally, _finally_ , after crawling for what feels like hours too long, her hand is within reach. His bloodied hands are trembling with his exertions, but desperation drives him forwards, past the black spots dancing in his vision. He grasps her hand, vision darkening, fingers uncoordinated and shaking.

Her small hand is still warm. Her fingers curl around his, and hope sparks to life within him. It tightens painfully in his chest in anticipation.

Her eyes blink open, the same way they had that morning when they woke - slow and gentle. He almost can't believe it's still the same day. She blinks weakly at him before her eyelids flutter closed with a slow exhale, like the final beats of a dying butterfly's wings. Her body shudders, and she stills. Her grip loosens.

Soul feels the hope drain from every fibre of his being with her dying breaths as he fights the inevitable darkness. His strength leaves with his hopes, and deserted by the only thing keeping him conscious, he succumbs to the dark.

 _Maka._

\- _And I do believe that. -_

He awakens on his back, to the smell of antiseptic and death and sterilised sheets. Despite his track record he's never been hospitalised before and the _smell_ and bright _grey_ light that lingers beyond his closed eyelids is cold and daunting. His consciousness is driven by only one thought.

 _Maka_.

Slowly he gathers the strength to lift drooping eyelids - since when were the damn things so _heavy_ \- and finds himself looking at a bed across from his just beyond the folds of a blanket that must be hiding his feet. In his direct line of sight, a nurse is making the bed, and she smiles that awkward service-with-a-smile half grimace that he hates and he feels the anxiety build up inside his chest painfully.

It looks like false reassurance.

He tries to read the little clipboard thing at the foot of the bed opposite him, but it's too far and all he can see is _Maka Albarn_ in every available space and he can't figure out if what his head is telling him is real or not.

She can't be gone. She _can't._

He's exhausted, but the panic is unyielding and he feels the world starting to crumble once more. His hands fist in the sheets, painfully tight, and the wound in his abdomen starts to throb. His heart starts to race and his lungs are ripping themselves out of his chest and before he realises what's going on around him, suddenly there are too many unfamiliar faces in his blurring, spinning vision and he can't breathe, and then something sharp pricks his skin and he makes an uncomfortable sound.

 _Where is she? Where is Maka? Is she alive?_

He tries to get up, brushing their hands aside. An invisible force restrains him - something deep and burning in his abdomen. He struggles against their hold until he can't breathe - he needs to get up. He needs to find her. Someone is yelling, and Soul almost wishes they would shut up because those same thoughts are loud enough in his head. His blood seeps through the bandages, and he's heaving and gasping for air, rasping breaths tearing from his throat. He's choking on air.

He doesn't realise he's the one screeching.

But then he's calm suddenly - his body is still - and everything slowing down, his eyelids drooping of their own volition, heavy with sedatives. His thoughts calm and he feels himself submit to the pull of sleep.

Her name is a whisper in the air.


	7. Together

**Epilogue**

\- B _elieve that I've got high hopes. -_

He sits by the hospital room window most days and wonders how they caught Hiro.

There are trials and arraignments to attend in the following weeks, but Soul is so tired he's not sure he can make himself get up and go. He just wants to put the whole thing behind him and lie in bed forever - wants to just leave Hiro out of the picture _forever_ and never have to see him again. He doesn't even have the strength to be angry; he's just so _tired_. He just wants to go to _sleep_.

He thinks about the hospital fees and the lack of job - in lieu of his carefully orchestrated plan to kill himself on that hill - and his savings are meagre. It's not enough for all the bills he has to pay. Not just for himself, but Maka…

His squeezes his eyes shut, as images of Maka's wound assail his thoughts. That small, innocent-looking hole in her stomach that they'd sewn shut. A small unassuming hole that had drained not just her life, but his. For something so small, the amount of pain it had brought was painfully disproportionate.

He remembers how painful it was for him, shot straight through the back to the front. He starts to feel queasy, remembering that Maka had had to suffer the same pain.

It was unfair. She deserved so much more. Would this have happened if he'd stayed away? If he'd stayed away, stuck to his plan, and she'd married Hiro - _would she never have been shot?_

His brow furrows and he massages the bridge of his nose. His eyes burn behind closed eyelids. He can't be thinking about this now. He barely has the will left to go on and the drab greys and blues of everything in the hospital are driving him insane. There is no colour around at all, and while he's been a stickler for red and black paint in the weeks _before,_ this two-colour scheme is not working out for him at all. There's still the trials to get through, and getting discharged and paying or everything and what about _Maka_?

The last thought is accompanied by a heavy, laborious exhale.

A pair of arms snake around his neck and over his chest as someone hugs him from behind, one hand adorning the soot-blackened Lonely Sock. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder and briefly he wonders how it's not pulling at the stitches in her abdomen, the position she's in. She rubs his chest soothingly and his shoulders relax.

 _It'll be okay,_ she says. _I'm here. We'll get through it._

He closes his eyes and pictures the curl of her eyelashes, the soft blonde colour of each strand as they brush against the top of her cheekbone. He hates the boring tones of the hospital rooms, but that's what makes Maka stand out, all soft hues of green and blonde and porcelain skin. Even pale from the severity of her injuries, she's radiant, beautiful and _everything_.

Her arms are firm, but gentle around him, and he stretches his neck out a little so that she can bury her face in the crook of his neck, and nuzzles her hair with his cheek, turning to kiss her head. He breathes in the scent of hospital soap in her hair and the underlying fragrance of everything that's _Maka._

He raises his hand to grasp hers. She presses a kiss to his neck and nuzzles him lovingly and Soul thinks they _can_ do it. They'll deal with it all together - the wedding fallout, the trial and charges against Hiro, her family - _their_ family and friends. The people he shut out when he ran.

They'll do it _together_.

\- _It takes me back to when we started. -_


End file.
